Stalingrad

In icy morn's gray,
To rhythmic drums' play,
Black-clad SS
March in formation
To drive scared Soviets away,
But Russian machine guns
Blow them away
Like stalks
In a field of hay,
And ten thousand die
'neath Stalingrad's
Leaden sky.

In Stalingrad,
On some cloudy day,
Some travelers say,
They see ghostly
Black squadrons
In the icy morn's gray,
Flying by, flying by
'cross the City's
Leaden sky...

Alfred Charasz
Copyright 2006 Alfred Charasz